


As Luck Would Have It

by mercureletters



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Blood, Stressed Patrice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercureletters/pseuds/mercureletters
Summary: Patrice Bergeron doesn't believe in magic, and he never will. Not even Brad Marchand's sudden bad luck, or Patrice's sudden good luck, can change his mind... Right?OrPatrice is in need of some good luck, Brad can help with that, and Zdeno is begging Brad to stop before he fucks everything up.





	1. Chapter 1

Patrice tilted his head up into the shower spray, the sting of hot water a kindness after an overtime loss to the Penguins at home. Every inch of Patrice’s body ached, sore, though the ache of loss hurt more than anything else. He scrubbed shampoo into his hair and massaged his scalp, grateful for the chance to be alone and lick his wounds in private before Brad could come over to distract them both from the misery. Patrice closed his eyes.

The water stopped pouring down before he could wash his hair of the soap, and when Patrice opened his eyes, the bathroom was pitch black. He blinked to make sure that there were, in fact, no lights, and then sighed. He pushed open the shower curtain and stepped out onto the tile, pulling the towel he’d set on the table around his waist and tucked it in. He reached for his phone, and jolted when he bumped something that fell to the ground and shattered in front of him. When he finally got his phone, he turned on the flashlight and stared with great disappointment at the remains of his beloved cologne that he’d gotten as a gag gift from Brad one year and never took off his bathroom counter.

Brad always said it smelled more like old women’s perfume, and now that the room reeked of overwhelming floral stench, Patrice actually agreed.

Patrice stepped over the mess and threw a handful of paper towels on top of the liquid, then left the bathroom and shut the door behind him as tightly as possible to make sure that Wilson wouldn’t get into it. He went down the hallway and opened his closet door, and rummaged through it. He knew he’d bought candles at one point or another. There was no way Patrice would sit in the dark, hair full of soap and unclothed until Brad arrived.

There were no candles. Patrice took a deep breath and sighed as he remembered that he’d used up the last of the almost-dead candles in the last power outage. He scurried to his bedroom, Wilson’s head given a quick pat on the way by though the dog seemed unfazed by the dark, and opened his drawers.

The sound of the front door, and a voice that left Patrice’s heart skipping a beat, alarmed him. “Bergy? You in here?”

“Just a second, Marchy, I’ll be right there,” Patrice grabbed the first things in the drawer without looking, and dragged them on as quickly as possible before he rushed to greet Brad.

Brad’s flashlight shone on Patrice as he stood by the door, Wilson panting beside Brad. For a moment, Patrice furrowed his brow at the strange expression on Brad’s face, his sopping wet hair still dripping down on his face. Brad had his lips pressed together tight, a slight twitch to his shoulders, and he could hear a stifled noise. Then, he recognized the sound of choked back laughter.

“Bergy, you,” Brad took a deep breath, and Patrice could practically see him holding words behind his teeth.

Patrice sighed, “Say it. I know you’re dying to,”

“I guess today’s been a real,” Brad’s canines peeked out of his bright grin, “wash for you,”

Patrice should have expected the pun, but he tilted his head back and groaned either way. He tried to put a hand in his pocket, and realized his pants were inside out. If Patrice could say he had a bad day, this had to be one of the worst ones he’d ever had. The flashlight felt more like a spotlight that shined on Patrice solely to embarrass him and tarnish Brad’s image of him. He covered his hands to avoid the light as Brad set the flashlight on the table.

There was looking like a fool in front of the Bruins, and then there was looking like a fool in front of Brad. Patrice didn’t know when the two roads started to split, when looking stupid in front of Brad made Patrice want to sink into the ground instead of just being another flustered moment with a teammate. All Patrice knew was that Brad made his heart skip a beat, and had the capability to make him feel like the best or worst person alive.

“Hey,” Brad’s voice made Patrice pry his hands from his head, “I’ll put Wilson’s harness on, and you guys can come with me to my house. You can finish your shower, and then you can sleep until the power’s back,”

Patrice watched Brad take the dog harness off the hook on the wall and kneeled down to , and took a deep breath. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose,”

“Am I-” Brad rolled his eyes, and finished helping Wilson into the harness with the close of a buckle, “Listen, I get it, you’re Saint Patrice and all, but you could show up unannounced and eat all the food in my fridge at midnight and I wouldn’t mind. You’re invited, Bergy, you always are,”

Patrice nodded, “Thank you, and I’m really sorry about this,”

“Forget about it,” Brad took Wilson’s leash, “it’s just some bad luck,”

“Yeah, just bad luck,”

Patrice hated himself for that Auston Matthews goal. If he hadn’t turned the puck over, the score would still be zero to one, and the Leafs would not be up by two in the third period. As usual, Zdeno hovered near Brad, as if letting Brad be alone would be a catastrophe. Patrice watched Brad’s eyes, sneaky as he waited for just the right moment for something that Patrice couldn’t identify. When Zdeno leaned down to fix his laces, Brad went into action.

“Hey! Jake,” Brad walked across the room as fast as possible, and clapped a hand to DeBrusk’s padded shoulder, his words spoken too fast to be normal, “You gonna score a hatty next period?”

DeBrusk pulled back from Brad ever so slightly. “What? It’s the third period,”

“You’re gonna score a hatty,” Brad removed one of his gloves and patted DeBrusk on the back of the neck, “I can feel it,”

DeBrusk’s bewildered expression remained. “what?”

“Everyone pass to DeBrusk, he’s getting a hatty tonight! If he doesn’t, I’m buying drinks tonight!”

Patrice swore that there was a slight golden glow to Marchand’s palm when he pulled away from a confused DeBrusk for the final pat. The team laughed, Brad’s antics enough to pull them from the fear of losing. That made no sense to him, though, and so he ignored the glow. He was just tired, seeing things. As Brad came back over to his spot, Zdeno brow knit, a familiar look that reminded Patrice of when Zdeno saw him for an injury. For once, Patrice decided to listen to what Zdeno and Brad talked about.

“Marchy,” Zdeno’s voice stayed soft, barely loud enough for Patrice or Brad to hear.

Brad slumped into his seat haphazardly, as if he had no cares. “Z, whatever you’re about to say, don’t. It’s been done and it’ll be fine,”

“You know that’s not true,” Zdeno leaned in towards Brad, head tilted, “you know what happens when you do that too much. If it turns up as a bad penalty, I don’t care, but,” The touch he gave to Brad’s shoulder seemed too soft, like Brad would shatter on contact, “what if it’s something else this time?”

“A hat trick isn’t equivalent to an injury. Just a false call,”

“We both know it doesn’t always work like that. Don’t get yourself injured,”

Brad opened his mouth to say something, then let his eyes slide directly to Patrice’s, and his jaw clamped shut. The way Brad turned away from him, the way Zdeno turned his head to Patrice with wide eyes, it all spelled something out, but what, exactly, escaped him. All he knew was that he wasn’t supposed to hear it.

Despite Patrice’s stumbles, Jake DeBrusk did score two goals, and Patrice couldn’t ask anything more of him. Somehow, Patrice wasn’t surprised when he heard the call behind him, and Brad arguing with a referee. One of the less notable Leafs had been smacked in the mouth, supposedly.

“Boston, number 63, high sticking,” The referee’s voice sounded like a death sentence.

When Patrice went back and looked, Brad’s stick never did make contact. It would be a bad penalty, a false call, but what did it matter? With Brad missing from the lineup, they took a chance on DeBrusk, and it paid off. Patrice only had to hand off the puck to DeBrusk, and he turned untouchable. After the third goal, the magic seemed to wear off, but for the remaining two and a half minutes, everyone but Patrice did fine with defense. Patrice still cursed himself for the unlucky turnovers, as if he’d been cursed to lose all his skill for a game.

As Brad left the penalty box, one minute to go on in the period, he rushed to join the defense. Fifty seconds. Patrice swung around him, and Brad gave a slight turned further to move between Patrice and someone else. Forty seconds. Patrice spotted a line change, Auston Matthews now on the ice, and the air charged. He could almost feel it when Matthews was going to make something happen. Thirty. Patrice drove himself towards the puck as fast as he could, suddenly loose from a hit by Pasta. He could scream if he weren’t reserved, the puck stolen by Matthews just before Patrice could grab it. Patrice tried to block him off, but Matthews passed off, got around, and received the puck again. Patrice couldn’t be sure how long was left on the clock.

Matthews shot the puck, and Patrice could only watch as Brad blocked it. The puck smashed into the glass shield, and the way he crumpled and covered his face on the way down spoke for him. The horn sounded, and the Bruins knew they’d won, but Patrice dropped his stick and skated over to see what happened, was Brad alright, was he-

“Marchy!” The nickname came straight out of Patrice’s heart as he came to a stop, Brad fumbling to take off his helmet.

Brad finally pulled the straps and almost broke the buckle taking his helmet off, all the while his mouth ran, “I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s better than it’s gonna look, it’s not as bad as it’s gonna look,”

Somehow, that only left Patrice’s heart in his stomach when he saw Brad’s face. He had to remind himself that it was a head injury, but the red streak over the left side of Brad’s face shook Patrice. He had seen injuries before, even injuries just above the orbital bone like this one but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t scare him as much the other times, seeing blood or knowing a head injury occurred.

Could he really be blamed? This was Brad Marchand, his best friend, his linemate, the man Patrice loved. To see Brad fumbling on the ice, half blinded by blood on one side of his face, scared Patrice.

“What the fuck, Marchy?” Patrice’s voice remained soft as he tossed his gloves to the ice, someone bringing a rag, “Did you have to block that with your head?”

Brad wiped at the blood, but it didn’t help all that much, unable to see it. “Listen, I didn’t try to get hit in the fucking head. Can’t go ruining this perfect face, right?”

“Here, let me,” Patrice took the towel and wiped the blood from Brad’s face, and just as he said, it really wasn’t as bad as it looked. Brad was mostly rattled, and shocked by the sudden pain, but Patrice had to admit the cut wasn’t extremely long or deep. Just bloody. “You’re lucky that didn’t hit you somewhere unprotected,”

Brad’s sarcasm leaked out, “Oh, yeah, lucky. Definitely,”

As Brad got up, Patrice almost asked him what he meant. Instead, he just pulled Brad along to the bench, even though Brad could skate fine on his own. Patrice couldn’t stop thinking about how much blood there was.

Patrice leaned against his car, half asleep from waiting up for Brad. He debated sitting in his car, but Patrice knew he’d nod off. In the dark of the parking lot, Patrice couldn’t make out much other the the silhouette of Heinen bickering with Kuraly, playful and happy, trying to decide where to go or if they just wanted to sleep. Patrice’s eyes blurred slightly with a yawn.

“Aw, Saint Patrice waited for me?” Patrice jumped at the sound of a voice, then relaxed when he realized who it was. Of course Brad would be like that.

Patrice lifted his head, “We carpooled. I’m not letting you take an uber after that, anyways,”

“I told you it wasn’t as bad as it looked,” It wasn’t until Brad opened the door and the lights turned on that he saw the gash, “You ready?”

Patrice stayed silent for a moment, eyes focused on the cut, then he nodded and opened the driver’s side. “Yeah. Let’s go, Marchy,”  
As soon as Patrice got into the car, he turned it on, though he waited for Brad to buckle up before he moved it. As Brad hummed out an off-key tune that Patrice didn’t know, Patrice tried to focus on the road. In the back of his mind, he still saw the red on Brad’s face. For a while, he drove along, that thought in his head. Patrice subconsciously pushed on the gas, and he heard Brad say something, but Patrice ignored him. Then, a hand wrapped around his exposed forearm.

“Bergy,” Brad took a soft tone, “pull over,”

“I’m fine,”

“I need you to pull over. You look like you’re gonna fucking puke,”

“We’re almost to your house, I-”

Brad’s voice sharpened, and his grip tightened, “Patrice, pull the fuck over. Now,”

Patrice’s breath shuddered, and he pulled off to the shoulder of the road, and almost slammed the brakes to stop the car. He didn’t realize how white his knuckles were, and how his hands actually ached from how tight he’d gripped the wheel. Patrice watched Brad’s hand run along his arm, and all of his muscles relaxed. He swore he saw a slight golden shimmer where Brad touched, but it faded too quickly for him to be sure. The image of Brad’s bloodied face faded from his mind. Patrice felt so much calmer, yet Brad…

Why did Brad look guilty?

“You, uh, you better?” Brad let go of Patrice’s arm, and leaned back into his own seat.

Patrice shook his head, “Yeah, I’m sorry, Marchy. I don’t know what happened,”

Brad nodded silently, eyes warm on Patrice’s calm form, and he leaned back into his seat. Patrice felt lighter, clearer, like something good would happen. He wasn’t sure why he felt like that, but he he did, and a bright smile bloomed on his face as he drove along.

Whatever Brad did, Patrice hoped it never went away.

Patrice came into the locker room a few days later with a spring in his step. Zdeno leaned over, hunched over as he worked on his pads and skates. Everyone except Brad was there, though Brad’s shoulder pads rested on the bench while the rest of his gear was missing, so he couldn’t be far from the room.

“Morning, Chara,” Patrice greeted him with a smile.

Zdeno leaned a bit further as he checked his skate blade for sharpness, “Good morning, Bergy. You sound like you’re in a good mood,”

“You wouldn’t believe what happened yesterday or this morning,” Patrice grinned at him, his hands tight together

“Won’t I?”

“I got free coffee this morning from the barista at the local coffee shop,” Patrice began, “and traffic has been unbelievable since the Leafs game. Is it me, or did it get lighter?” Zdeno chuckled, and Patrice continued as he laced up, “Then I found the hat I thought I lost a while ago. And everything has been coming so much easier! I’m having so much good luck,”

Zdeno’s smile faded away, and he paused in his gearing up to look directly at Patrice. “Good lu…” Zdeno’s voice trailed off, and then he swallowed, “Oh. Bergy, you’re- you’re glowing. With, uh, happiness. No wonder Marchy is so…”

Patrice frowned. “Is something the matter, Chara?”

Zdeno clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I warned him. He’s got to deal with the consequences. It’s not my job to make sure he learns safely,”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not my job to make sure Marchy learns safely,”

Patrice wasn’t sure who Zdeno was trying to convince of that: Patrice, or himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the ending

The conversation with Zdeno only made it harder to look at Brad’s face when he finally showed up. The bags under his eyes stood out, but the fact that Brad’s jaw had a massive bruise on it worried Patrice more. The only exchange they managed was a brief brush of the arm and a smile before they had to scramble to put their gear on. Zdeno’s eyes lingered on Brad, brow knit, almost as if he looked on a disaster waiting to happen. 

Patrice wanted to corner Brad and check the bruise, then force him to go to sleep, but it had to wait. They had to practice, and Cassidy wouldn’t hold up the team just because Brad slept funny the night before. A warmth sparked in Patrice’s chest as he practiced, a warm blanket against the cool air. That warmth seemed to pulse into his stick work, turn him to magic. Every shot he took went in, every jump he made and drill he did perfected in the moment. It would almost captivate Patrice.

Almost, except Patrice couldn’t stop the bile rising in his throat as he watched Brad suffer. He clattered to the ground a dozen times, his feet coming out from under him in ways that Patrice didn’t believe could physically happen. At one point, Patrice swore Brad’s feet got kicked out from under him by some invisible force as he hit the ice, jaw first on the other size of the rink. Brad shoved himself to his feet, but Patrice couldn’t watch anymore.

“Marchy,” Patrice slid to a stop, satisfied with how simple it was to stop on a dime right now. Brad almost fell down at the shock of Patrice’s appearance. Patrice swore there was a small violet gleam around Brad for a moment, but he ignored it.

Once Brad regained his footing, he tilted his head towards Patrice. “Uh, hi?”

“Are you sure that you’re is alright?” Patrice shoved down the desire to forget about the bruise as he spotted and ignored a quarter on the ground, “Your jaw looks, you know, and you look like you haven’t slept in days,”

Brad remained silent, stifled a yawn, then said, “I didn’t think you’d ask,”

“What?” Patrice frowned at that, the idea that Brad expected him not to care about an injury a shock. “Why? You look tired and like someone punched you in the face,”  


The ever subtle stiffening of Brad’s posture contradicted his words. “I just didn’t think it was that important, you know?”

“Well,” Patrice took off a glove, tucked it under his arm, reached out towards Brad, “let me see your jaw. It looks painful,” Patrice’s entire body shivered when he touched Brad’s bruised jaw, and he widened his eyes before he jerked his hand back. “Brad,”

“What is it?”

“You’re fucking freezing,”

Brad felt like death. Was it normal for someone to be the same temperature as the ice under their feet, maybe colder? Was it normal to be scared your friend was freezing to death on the ice?

“What are you...” Brad laughed, “Oh, okay, I get it now. You’ve finally given into making puns!” He tapped his gloved hand on Patrice’s shoulder, “Can’t believe Saint Patrice gave into the dark side! Come on, give it to me, what’s the punchline here?”

Patrice gripped onto Brad’s jersey and tried to haul him towards the benches, “I’m not joking with you! You’re ice cold,”

“There it is! Nice one, Bergy,” Brad stifled a yawn and pulled Patrice’s hand off, then skated off with a wave.

Patrice didn’t know if he was going crazy or if Brad was just blowing off his concern.

* * *

The horn sounded overhead, and Patrice hollered out loud as he scored for the second time against the Habs that night. The crash of three bodies into his own left him off balance, but he fell just right into Zdeno, so it didn’t matter. He put his feet back down in place, his smile the sun. With not a single penalty to his name, an almost supernatural faceoff win streak, and two goals in the second period, Patrice was flying high in the . 

“Bergy, you’re doing amazing!” Pasta’s voice reached his ear, “You gotta rub some of that luck off on me!” 

He laughed a little, then pulled away from everyone. He got a bump from Brad, a silent exchange between them as he looked down into his eyes. Even with how tired Brad looked, there was nothing but adoration in his eyes. Patrice smiled to try and ignore how his mouth dried out, the way his stomach filled with butterflies. Patrice had gotten so lucky as to have Brad for a best friend, but... 

It didn’t matter. Even with what seemed like all the luck in the world, he could never get Brad to say yes if he asked the question on his mind.

Patrice skated towards the bench and fist bumped everyone on the way by before he circled back, and Zdeno came in beside him. They got onto the bench together, Brad the last one in and so furthest away from Zdeno and Patrice. Zdeno’s smile faded away, and he rested a hand on Patrice’s arm.

“Bergy,” Zdeno began slowly, “I need to ask you to do something that isn’t going to make sense to you,”

Patrice frowned. “Is something wrong, Z?”

“I need you to tell Marchy to stop with this luck before something happens,” Patrice could barely hear Zdeno’s words.

What kind of favor was that to ask? “What do you mean, ‘with this luck?’” Patrice leaned in closer, “I know he’s not doing very well right now, but I’m not going to blame him for some bad luck, and he's been okay so far-”

“This is going to sound crazy, but,” Zdeno squeezed his stick, “I need you to trust me,”

Patrice scooted down the bench, Zdeno next to him again in seconds. As Patrice watched players filter off and on the ice, he said, “It can’t be crazier than blaming Marchy for luck,”

“He has magic that controls luck and it's hurting him,”

Patrice turned his head to look directly at Zdeno. Patrice’s brow pressed down, a slight tightening on the grip of his stick. What kind of crazy babble was that? Patrice shook his head and turned away from Zdeno for a moment. After a breath, he looked at Zdeno and spoke.

"Z, there is no such thing as magic," Patrice's words came out slow, deliberated, "You know there is no such thing as magic, this is just crazy talk,"

Zdeno frowned. "Explain it, then. The way things are going for you, the way things went for Jake, Brad's bad luck. I think you know, Bergy," Zdeno swallowed, "I think you just don't want to believe it," 

Patrice shook his head and sighed, his head turned from Zdeno for the rest of their time on the bench. Magic? Had Zdeno lost his mind? Even as Patrice rejected the idea, his mind flickered back to the golden light he'd seen from Brad's hands with DeBrusk and when Brad had touched his arm. The sudden stints of luck, the "almost" supernatural way things were going... Could Patrice really deny it? As the door to the bench opened, Patrice realized he had to get on a shift. He vaulted over the boards to get out at the same time as Zdeno, followed shortly by Pasta and Brad, McAvoy still out there.

Despite his distraction, Patrice remained untouchable. Patrice tried to reassure himself as he tapped the puck along, but things were too easy, and with the words Zdeno said at the front of his mind, the lump in this throat grew. He had the clearest shot in the world at this point, and Patrice shook the thoughts off. There was no such thing as magic. There wouldn't be some horrible consequence of scoring. Patrice decided to make the choice, and shot the puck. Something in his stomach dropped, that cold he'd felt from Brad at practice the day before surrounding him. The puck went directly past the goaltender with five seconds left on the clock, and the horn sounded. Patrice turned around, his eyes on Brad as soon as possible. His throat tightened as a heavy violet shine surrounded Brad. Could the others not see it? Could Brad not see it?

The world seemed to slow down as one of the Habs charged at Brad from behind. Patrice pushed off towards them, but he couldn't do anything, not even with all the luck in the world. The Hab rammed Brad into the boards, and Patrice screamed out. Brad's head went into the boards first, neck collapsing under the hit. Brad folded into the ice beneath him. The remaining warmth in Patrice's skin abandoned him. Patrice shoved the Hab out of the way and dropped down next to Brad.

"Marchy!" He touched Brad's shoulder, the overwhelming cold sickening, "Marchy, are you okay?"

Patrice could hear Zdeno yelling and the sound of fighting behind him, but what he didn't hear was Brad's voice. Patrice couldn't care less about the fight when Brad, his Brad, wasn't moving. The first word that came to mind scared him: _concussion_.

Patrice yelled out, "Marchy's hurt, someone just- Please! Help!"

A linesman pulled Patrice away despite his struggle to stay close to Brad, and Patrice could only watch as he was examined. Then, a thought came to him as his head whipped around. People were filming Brad's injury. Patrice shoved the linesman off of him and skated to pose himself to block the cameras, keep Brad's face out of the films. Pasta did the same, as did McAvoy. Patrice glanced at the penalty box to see Zdeno's tense gaze, his tight grip on his stick as he shook.

* * *

Hospitals were cold, sterile, disgustingly clean, and reeked of cleaning chemicals. Patrice would know, after the many times he’d been in one. He jiggled his leg, eyes on the floor as he sat in the waiting room. For once in his life, this wasn’t for his own sake that he had to be in one of these. The knowledge that it was Brad behind those doors felt like a knife in Patrice’s ribs. If his eyes met anyone else’s, he gave a strained smile. His eyes fell to Tuukka’s feet, with one skate on one foot and a sneaker on the other. If the injury weren’t at the front of his mind, Patrice would have laughed.

The wait had been over an hour and a half now. Most of the other Bruins were here, except Pasta and Krug, who were collecting Brad’s gear and taking it to his house, and Zdeno, who had to deal with the press. Patrice wanted to take the razors of anxiety out of his chest, breathe easy, but he couldn’t. Until he knew Brad, his Brad, Brad who had chosen to use dangerous magic to help Patrice for reasons that Patrice still didn’t know, was okay, Patrice couldn’t rest. The silence in the room drew on, as he heard person after person get called into the back to see their loved ones in the emergency room. 

After an eternity, Patrice’s head snapped up as he heard the receptionist call for him. Patrice shot up and had to hold back from a run on his way to the desk. “Marchand, Brad, is he-”

“He’s asking to see whoever is here for him,” The receptionist gave him a dim smile, her hair in a mild disarray, “He’s in room two hundred and seven,”

Patrice breathed out, “Thank you,”

“Come on, let’s go, let’s go already,” Carlo sounded impatient, not that Patrice could blame him.

Patrice had to hold himself back as he rushed down the hall with the others. The ache in his chest begged him to run, his muscles tensed in preparation. He needed to see Brad, but Patrice had to walk for the sake of everyone else in the hospital. When he finally reached the door of room 207, Patrice’s hand snagged the handle, but he paused. 

“What are you waiting for?” Halak asked.

Patrice took a deep breath, then turned his head over his shoulder, “Do you think Brad is really okay for visitors?”

“Bergy, if you don’t open that door...” Tuukka left his threat open, but the discomfort on his face said enough.

Patrice nodded and turned the handle, and held the door until everyone crammed themselves into a dark hospital room, Brad covered in what Patrice swore was ten blankets. He had his eyes closed, but Patrice saw the corners of his mouth quirk up as everyone filtered in. Once Donato came in the door, Patrice let go, and wriggled through the many bodies until he was on Brad’s right side.

“Hey guys,” Brad didn’t open his eyes, his words slightly slurred but easy to understand. “Sorry to leave you in the dark for so long,”

For a moment, Patrice didn’t understand, but then it clicked. The room was dark. Patrice let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Really? You have a concussion and you still want to make puns?”

“I had the chance,” The way his canines peeked out of his grin as usual soothed Patrice as Brad lifted a hand and spoke, “I took it,” Then, Brad opened his eyes, “How’s everybody?”

DeBrusk kept his voice quiet, “Well, everyone’s okay except Z got a fighting major for beating up the guy who hit you and Tuukks is gonna get fined big time for taking off his skate and throwing it at the guy,”

“Tuukka threw his skate blade?”

Tuukka placed a hand on DeBrusk’s mouth and said, “I didn’t throw a skate blade. I threw my skate,”

“Are you telling me,” Brad started laughing, though it clearly hurt him from the groan he made, “you unlaced your entire skate and stood with one foot in just a sock to throw your entire skate at a guy?”

Tuukka shrugged. “He deserved it,”

The conversation went on like that for a while, with Forsbacka occasionally chiming in, and Kuraly and Heinen joking with Brad while Tuukka tried to pretend he didn’t care as much as he did. Halak took up most of the room on Brad’s other side, seated on the edge of his bed while Brad patted his knee. The low rumble of voices stayed low, all of them knew better than to get loud around someone with a concussion. It wasn’t until Brad started nodding off mid-conversation that the others knew it was time to go. 

“You tired?” McAvoy asked.

Brad shook his head, “No way,”

The soft, sleepy tone of his words contradicted him. The team exchanged worfs personally, each person’s voice too soft for anyone but Brad to hear, Halak the first to leave. Everyone took their turn, filtering out one at a time until it was just Tuukka and Patrice left to say their goodbyes. After Tuukka said something to Brad, Tuukka fixed Patrice with a stare, as if to say something that Patrice couldn’t quite place his finger on. As if Tuukka knew about what Patrice had to do, what he had to fix. Then, the door swung open, and Tuukka disappeared through it.

“So,” Patrice cleared his throat, “Just you and me, Marchy,”

Brad closed his eyes and nodded, fingers knit on his chest, “Just you and me,”

“Can we talk? It’s important, but if you don’t think you can handle it with a concussion, then it can wait,” Patrice asked.

His laugh sounded like the sweetest song. “We’ll see if I actually remember it. Go ahead,”

“You used magic on me to make me score, didn’t you?” The words came out before Patrice was really ready to say them.

The sound he made shocked Patrice. “I what-?” Brad’s eyes opened in a flash, and he tried to sit up, though he groaned and leaned back almost as soon as he tried. “Bergy, I...”

Patrice grabbed a chair and pulled it over to Brad’s side, and gripped one of his hands, “Why did you do it if you knew it would hurt you?”

“Bergy, listen, I just,” Brad swallowed hard, wouldn’t look at Patrice, “I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand, I just,” He splayed his free hand out in front of him, “I wanted...”

The silence that hung between them thickened, the tensions rising. Finally, after what felt like hours, Brad said, “I wanted you to be happy,”

“Did you think getting hurt would make me happy?” Patrice prayed that it was just a byproduct, though even then, he could never be happy that Brad was hurt even if it was just an afterthought. 

“I wanted you to be happy. And, you weren’t, so I just... I did what I thought would help you,”

“Why would you risk your life to do that?” Frustration slowly ate at Patrice’s chest, the razors replaced with heated anger that Brad would do something so unbelievably reckless.

Brad’s brow pressed down, “Because it matters to me that you’re happy? It’s not that complicated,”

“But why did you want that so damn bad? You could have died, and for what?” Patrice gritted his teeth, ever so slightly, “You shouldn’t be doing that for nothing,”

“It isn’t nothing, Bergy, it was affecting your quality of life,”

“It was some bad luck, Brad, I could have lived with it,”  


“You would be the one in this bed, and I can’t watch you get hurt again!” Brad’s voice raised, and the words came out too fast, “I love you too much for that!”

The air was too thick to breathe after that. Brad said he loved him. Brad _loved_ Patrice. For a moment, Patrice let excitement warm his heart, but then, he realized what was going on. The joy fizzled out of his heart, and Patrice swallowed his emotions.

“You’re only saying that because you have a concussion, Marchand,” Patrice pulled his hand out of Brad’s, and stood up, “I should go now,”

Brad opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and nodded. Patrice didn’t give Brad a hug, or touch his shoulder, or even so much as give a farewell. He opened the door and disappeared, walking to his car in the silence before he got into his car and drove, maybe a little too fast, to get home.  


Somehow, the speeding and the risk made it easier not to slam his hands onto the horn and scream.  


* * *

For two weeks, Patrice gets away with just hiring a dog sitter and going on the road trip to avoid confrontation with Brad, whose concussion no longer disoriented or really bothered him besides the little things. Everyone else had spoken with him, said he’d been in low spirits, but Patrice couldn’t be near him. No matter how much he wanted to, Patrice was certain Brad could shatter him instantly if he took back the confession or said he didn’t remember it.

At the moment, Patrice typed up his millionth drafted text to Brad that he would never send. Something about how he felt the same way but he’d gotten scared, or asking if he’d really meant what he said because Patrice was terrified he didn’t, or some other sad, pathetic attempt to fulfill a piece of himself that Brad didn’t shame just because Patrice was lonely and selfish and wanted Brad so badly that he would take a concussed false confession just to live with himself for a while.  


Saint Patrice. What a joke.  


Patrice only lifted his head when he heard the click of the door, and he stood up slowly. Hadn’t he locked it when he came in? Patrice knew he had a spare key, but he hadn’t told anyone where he kept it. Well, no one except-

“Bergy? You in here?” Of course. The only person who knew where the spare key was was Brad.

Patrice took a deep breath, tossed his phone onto the table, and walked to the entryway. As soon as he saw Brad, he forced a thin smile on his face. “Hey, Marchy. How did you get here?”

“Bergy,” The relief and worry in Brad’s voice surprised him, “I walked here, I’ve been worried about you. You didn’t call or...”

Or anything. Patrice knew. “I’m sorry, Marchy, I just didn’t think I should, you know, call after-“

“We should talk about that,” Brad interrupted him, crossing the room to grab onto Patrice’s sleeve, “We should really, really talk about that,”

“Okay,”

Patrice knew Wilson didn’t care if Brad was here, as Wilson just jumped on him a few times before sitting down and letting Patrice and Brad grab drinks from the fridge and sit down. They popped their drinks open and sat in the quiet, taking sips until Patrice had to admit to himself, he missed this. He missed Brad, their little conversations, the way they could just get along. If only Patrice hadn’t loved Brad, hadn’t had to hear the words he always wanted but never meant.

“So,” Brad opened his mouth, facing Patrice, “you know I have luck magic, and that I used it on you,”

Patrice took a sip, then forced himself to relax. “Yeah, I know,”

“And, I confessed to you that I love you,” Brad swallowed hard, “and, you left. That’s okay, you know? I didn’t expect you to, to feel the same way. I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything,”

Patrice coughed, choked on his drink.“Wait, you actually meant it?”

Brad's eyes flickered away, "Yeah, but, I know you don't feel the same way, and I'm not a dick, I'm not gonna try to make you feel the same way,"

"Brad," Patrice began, but his words got taken away by Brad continuing.

"I know you wouldn't want to be with me even if you liked guys. I mean, I wouldn't want to be with me. And, you're such a great guy and all, you deserve someone nice,"

"Brad,"

"I know, you're going to try to be nice and disagree but I know what I'm like. But, uh, okay, thanks for the drink, I should-"

Patrice couldn't stand it anymore. He leaned over and pressed his lips to Brad's, his fingers lacing into Brad's shirt. Brad fumbled to put down his drink and almost spilled it on the table. For a moment, Patrice wondered if he'd done the wrong thing. Then Brad pressed into Patrice, sighed, and kissed back. It wasn't deep, but the electricity in Patrice's veins lit him up. When they pulled apart, Brad's hands were shaking.

"Oh," Brad swallowed.

Patrice gave a slight laugh, "Yeah. Oh. I love you too, but I need you to do something for me,"

"Anything,"

"No more magic. I don't want to see any more of you hurting yourself for others,"

"Deal,"

If Zdeno happened to notice the way they hovered together the next few days, he didn't say anything. 


End file.
